


At Apollo's Rough Hands

by whizzer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Grantaire is a Mess, M/M, Pining Grantaire, enjolras is his muse, grantaire is a poet, i am very passionate about this show, i recently saw les mis live and i was inspired, little to no angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzer/pseuds/whizzer
Summary: Enjolras was compromised of sharp angles and of rough edges and Grantaire could stare at them all day.





	At Apollo's Rough Hands

Grantaire could only choose to marvel at the man standing before him, the vibrant red complimenting his long golden hair too well. He sat back in his chair and stared, not bothering to listen to what he had to say. It was the same every day, the same talk of revolution. Grantaire would never believe they would get far, he never believed in anything about this revolution. He knew from the start that they were outnumbered by their country, yet he still attended every single meeting. He did it for him, for the man with gold weaved into his curls-

Wait. That was good. He grabbed his pencil and the leather bound journal he had in front of him, quickly writing down his idea. His handwriting was near impossible to read to anyone else, helping him in the long run when he considered anyone who could come across his pieces. 

Grantaire could recall most of the conversations he had had with Enjolras, in which none were even the slightest bit good. If anything, talking to Enjolras made him feel even more like a damned idiot than he already thought himself to be. Enjolras was fierce and he was mean and he was rough. Enjolras was compromised of sharp angles and of rough edges and Grantaire could stare at them all day. Each page of his journal was a poem about 'Apollo', or a sketch of him, a halo around his head.

There had only been one time where they had made any sort of contact. Grantaire was drunk and giddy and Enjolras was fed up. Enjolras had grabbed his arms roughly and brought him closer, muttering words that Grantaire could hardly understand in his drunken stupor. All he knew was that at that moment, he could truly feel how Enjolras' hands felt. Not to his surprise, they were coarse and they were calloused and rough. In those few seconds, his mind had wandered far from the situation. He imagined how those hands will feel in his own, how they would feel on his own stubbly cheek. He imagined how they would feel and how they would move intimately across his bare skin, and he found himself with a flushed face and a dazed smile. He fell out of his daydream when suddenly he was on the ground and he could see Enjolras leaving. He stared as he left the cafe, unmoving. He was silent.

From that moment on, he had stayed away from Enjolras. He had realized how truly vulnerable that he could be and how quickly his mind would wander. He would still make snarky comments at the meetings, but the minute they were done, he was gone. He never wanted to linger around him. He still wrote about him and he still sketched him, but they all ended up thrown away or burned. He could never truly capture the man in words or in drawing. The journal ended up in the fire as well, burning every memory of past meetings and of every drunken blurb he had ever written. It was completely gone and Grantaire felt the weight already present on his chest grow by ten. 

Grantaire had no idea what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> my first les mis fic this is nerve racking =/


End file.
